


Homage

by Heather



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Dark, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-02-29
Updated: 2004-02-29
Packaged: 2017-10-08 01:32:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/71324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heather/pseuds/Heather
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Honestly? I have no idea what's going on. Cordelia, Dawn and the sharing of otherworldly power in orgasmic ways.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Homage

Dawn doesn't know why she still visits.

She was warned before coming here that very first time that six years is a long time, perhaps too long, to be in a coma, and the others have all long since lost hope for a recovery. Wesley visits once a month to show pictures of his children to the prone body of Cordelia Chase, and Angel sends flowers once a week, but other than that, she might as well be dead.

Perhaps this is why Dawn visits. Because Cordy has no one else to care.

Her hair has grown long in this time, Dawn sees. It falls around that white, sleeping face in clouds of rich chestnut ringlets, so shiny and vivid compared to the rest of her that it's almost as if they've leeched all the life from the rest of her body. Dawn finds that idea amusing: Cordelia eaten alive by her hair. Images of monstrous hair-beasts on legs chasing the maidens of Sunnydale briefly dance through her head, nearly causing her to giggle inappropriately beside this woman who has not laughed in nearly a decade.

Inappropriate is something Dawn refuses to be. She is a woman now; a grad student at Bryn Mawr, hair bobbed in a sensible pageboy, the baby fat that once cutely rounded her cheeks gone smooth and flat, perfectly moisturized every day. She is barely recognizable anymore as Buffy's annoying little sister, the whiner, the niblet. She likes to think of herself as poised and elegant.

Just like Cordelia.

Cordelia would snort at that if she could. Poise and elegance were things she had in short supply when she walked and talked; pride and arrogance was much closer to the truth. And a healthy dose of fashion sense.

There is an odd connection between these two now, one the others, distantly removed from this hospital room and the former friend it contains, are not aware of and could not fathom if they were. A connection made of green healing light, people dead and dying, and of mortal Gods roaming California.

How do you explain a thing like that? Both women wonder to themselves. How do you explain to those who do not know what it is to be filled with the creative energy of the universe? To play a part in Apocalypses much more complicated than simply causing or stopping them? To be manipulated by the most powerful of beings, to achieve their aims, whether good or ill?

Dawn tells no one of these thoughts or the subsequent visits they lead to. A twenty slipped to the nurse each time keeps the secret from Wesley, and lipstick-stained lies pacify the rest. What reason do they have to doubt her? Who would even think that this was what she was doing?

Dawn softly closes the door and moves to the side of the bed, taking out her bag. It always starts this way.

Slowly, deliberately, she begins applying make-up. Carefully chosen foundation and a dab of liquid power. A swish of blush over each cheekbone and delicate smoothing of shadow onto eyelids and mascara onto lashes.

She always saves the lipstick for last. The tube is pristine and shiny, always wrapped in tissue in her purse and never used, except during these visits. The color is called 'sangria.' Dawn can't help but smirk at the idea that she's about to smear a lipstick called "blood" on Cordy's mouth.

Carefully, with an almost indecent amount of satisfaction, she applies the lipstick to her own lips. Once. Twice. Three times. Rubs her lips together to get it spread 'round.

Instead of reaching for the tissue to blot it, she leans down, pressing her mouth to Cordy's.

The kiss is hard, achingly slow, Dawn actually massaging Cordelia's lips with her own, memorizing the details. The feel of soft, malleable lips beneath her own. The scent of fresh make-up and hospital stench. How very soft Cordy is when she's deprived of direct sunlight and given more than the necessary amount of fluids each day.

Dawn pulls away with a smile, gently combing strands of hair out of Cordelia's sleeping face then sliding her fingertips down her cheeks and neck, to the hospital gown ties, tugging them free.

The gown slides open easily, and Dawn delicately pulls it away, takes out the lotion next.

Gobs of cool green ooze, scented of fresh kiwi, spill onto Dawn's palms. With something akin to reluctance, she lies them atop Cordelia's breasts. Slides them down, circling each nipple, then slides them back over, bobbing them in her hands playfully.

She slips her hands further down, rubbing Cordy's belly intently. Her skin did not become stretch marked when she carried her burden-blessing goddess-child into Life; her skin is almost completely free of scars. Whole. Unmarked. Perfect.

Her hands move down Cordelia's sides, sliding underneath her to caress her back, her fading tattoo. Her buttocks.

Gently, she rubs each other calf and thigh, devoting special attention to Cordelia's feet. Oiling her like a bride in ancient times. Or like a sacrifice.

Dawn takes her time with each ministration, cleansing and beautifying Cordelia's entire body with a patience and thoroughness she would not have thought herself capable of. She can no longer remember how this lengthy ritual got started, only that she would feel it keenly, a great loss, if she ever stopped. Perhaps it is because she has developed a sense of Cordelia's loneliness, her silent pain.

Dawn takes from her bag a kit of henna next, applying neat black lines to each of Cordy's wrists. Lacking real jewelry, Dawn paints bangles on her instead: circling each wrist, each ankle; encloses them around her throat.

Finally, she takes out the final item. Shiny, steely and cold. A surgical scalpel.

Ever-so-gently, she opens an inch-long cut firstly on each of her palms, then on Cordelia's. Pauses to inhale against the pain and the power of deep crimson blood, gently flowing from each of their hands.

Dawn draws another sharp breath as she takes Cordelia's hands in hers, palm to palm, wound to wound. Blood trickling and mixing together with the faintest glow of green emanating from their clasped hands.

The feeling is amazing; life, love and the beating of the heart of the universe bleeding together in a heady mixture that nearly staggers Dawn every time. Her own heart races with passion as she is filled, filled with the oldest, purest and greatest of loves; the love of a creator for its creations.

It spreads throughout each of their bodies rapidly like a lightning bolt, leaving in its wake indescribable ecstasy. The monitors frantically beep and click as Cordelia's own body reacts along with Dawn's, overswept by the rush of power-pleasure-love.

Dawn throws her head back with a moan as she is lifted literally off her feet, hovering two or three inches above the floor, Cordelia's body rising from the bed as her eyes twitch madly beneath their still closed lids and glow white.

The throes are primal, intense, stripped of anything resembling fear, doubt or complexity from her entire being. They crash over both bodies in joyful waves, building to unfathomable heights, curling Dawn's toes, Cordelia's hair.

Slowly, her grip loosens as the power becomes too much to bear, and she and Cordelia fall slowly back to the solid surfaces from whence they flew; their hands separate, completely healed, as the light fades, and each seems to return to her previous state.

It takes Dawn several minutes to regain her composure, still shaking with pleasure, as she cleans and dresses Cordelia once again.

As she bends down to kiss Cordelia's forehead and pull the blankets up to her chin, Dawn wonders, for perhaps the first time, what the others would think if they knew, what they would do if they caught them in the act.

Dawn smirks as she imagines shocked expressions and accusations of defiling Cordelia's sacred, silent body. She does not share this view at all.

She thinks of it as one otherworldly power paying homage to another.

\--THE END--

  



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